


Crocodile Chop

by Ketchupface



Category: One Piece
Genre: Other, Oviposition, Smoking, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 14:13:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4669610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ketchupface/pseuds/Ketchupface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>one time i paid money to be able to hatch an alligator with my bare hands and im glad i did because it turns out it was research</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crocodile Chop

**Author's Note:**

> doflamingo uses it/its pronouns; crocodile is dfab trans male and uses he/him. i want to remind anyone disgusted by my pronoun choices that you just willingly opened a fic tagged "doflamingo/crocodile" and "oviposition" and i perhaps suggest you choose your battles wiser
> 
> also i didnt edit this hardly but the weird capitalization is on purpose

it has the decency to kick the window in a few hours after dawn, having learned over the years that his object of torment isn’t a morning person, though perhaps only actually learning that it couldn’t find any fun in this specific avenue of misery. maybe it is only trying to suck up to him, hoping to find a quick fix in his irritability the night previous and avoid yet another rocky patch.

so there donquixote doflamingo stood, tray of food balanced on its arm, precarious enough to make any waitstaff nervous. (though the perceived instability is only to the untrained eye - strings thin and sheer like fishing line knot around the contents, a safety net from the winds of its journey. it had no qualms with cheating.) and there, donquixote doflamingo peered around, and there, donquixote doflamingo noticed something off about crocodile’s office.

nothing seemed out of place, lit by the beams of the intense alabasta sun; not even a stray feather from its antics the night previous. (a decade in the grand line ruined its sense of seasons changing, but it felt as though moulting season was approaching.) the place was downright immaculate, to be expected of His Royal Reptilian; what caught its notice was something in the atmosphere. a few steps and a flick of the wrist confirmed the entrance (the real entrance, that people normally go through, _the one that isn’t a window_ , it could hear him drone,) was locked; not that it expected anything else, but it desired a confirmation regardless.

it didn’t have the courtesy to use the doorknob on the second occasion, opening its way to his bedroom with a firm push from its foot. “Breakfast in bed, Croc!” it announced, with a shit-eating grin. its declaration was met with a faint, anguished moan; not the sort of someone woken up by a bird screaming in his ear, but someone in an absolute sad state of affairs.

doflamingo wasn’t the only one shedding, it seemed; grits of sand seemed scattered all around crocodile’s bedroom, small piles between folds of his sheets, marking the borders of where he had been writhing around. he looked miserable; his head at the foot of the bed, his hair all out of place, his face red; the only thing missing from the picture was any sort of sweat forming, but it supposed it wasn’t possible for crocodile _to_ sweat anymore.

it discarded the tray of food, tossing it to a bedside table where it landed perfectly, without a drop of liquid spilled. (not a real trick shot, not even close - it had better things to do than to be concerned about cheating.) it walked over to crocodile’s side, behind him, peered over him with grin still out in full. “You don’t look so good,” it says, licking its teeth.

it’s met in response not with words but with crocodile rolling over, his hook swinging up and out to backhand it. it let out a short laugh, more like a squawk, and its hand intercepting; slapping against the flat of the hook and stopping it in place with a strange sort of hollow metallic noise. its grin drops, replaced with an exaggerated frown, making it look a mockery of pensive. “You must really not be feeling well. That was weak!”

crocodile looked ready to kill, turned only enough to side-eye it. he had his hand against his chest, something held tight in it, and it was only this moment that doflamingo noticed that he was wearing nothing below the waist.

“you are the person i least wanted to see,” he says, his voice unsteady.

its smile is back. “I don’t know!” it says, “I can think of worse. I’ve seen you naked already, at least! Imagine if one of your underlings walked in, like Mr. 1, or Ms. All-”

it’s interrupted by a change in crocodile, his eyes screwing shut, his teeth gritting together and suppressing a sound coming from his throat. his legs shift, move apart from one another.

“Listen,” doflamingo says, with literally no idea what it’s going to say or do, but internally frantically forming some sort of idea on how to play this off.

crocodile groans, his spine shifting up involuntarily, and his hand shoots over to doflamingo and drops its charge. “do something with this,” he says, his voice cracking.

it’s an egg.

laying in doflamingo’s hands is an egg, and not a very large one at that, likely fitting snugly in the hands of someone who wasn’t ten feet tall. it was warm, and moist, and oddly soft to the touch, completely unlike a bird’s egg and seeming something closer to a reptile’s.

crocodile makes an awful sound, barely able to suppress it. his whole body shivers and his hand moves to rest on his thigh.

bizarrely enough doflamingo has some sort of instinct of what to do with eggs, and gets busy; it moves in a circle, kicking up sand to clear a space on the floor. once satisfied, it removed the plumage from its back and curls it up, tucks it into itself around the edges and places its charge in the center, forming a bright pink bird’s nest. by the time it’s done, crocodile’s writhing seems to have hit a lull and, indeed, another egg is passed to it. this one drips fluid onto its hand and it tries to avoid thinking about inevitably having to wash out Crocodile Juice from its outfit.

it finds its chance and hops onto crocodile’s bed, the impact sending tiny sand piles airborne. it crouches down, not straddling him but merely towering over him.

“Looks like you’re a parent!” it says, smiling.

“take your shoes off,” he says.

“How many eggs do crocodiles lay?” it responds.

“i’m serious, i don’t want shoeprints on my bed.”

“You’re gonna wash these sheets anyway. Are these fertilized?”

“i don’t feel like-”

“‘Cause like, birds lay all the time even if it’s not fertile, but these aren’t bird eggs, y’know?”

“this isn’t your business-”

“I’m making it my business! I’m midwifing for you! I could take these off your hands, i’ve had kids before-”

his hand reaches out for doflamingo’s sleeve, grips tightly on its arm. it can see the muscles of his torso spasm.

“doflamingo,” he says, an invisible shift interrupting him with a gasp for breath, “shut up. another one’s coming.”

it makes a couple bunny hops to shift positions to behind his knees, and crocodile’s grip slides up and into doflamingo’s hand. (hand-holding - they skipped that base entirely. this is one hell of a first time.)

the eggs seem to be coming a lot faster now, and with a buck of his hips, a noise muffled by his teeth around his free arm, two more slip out and into the relative safety of doflamingo’s care.

it is when these two are nestled with the previous in its feathers that the proper synapses fire in doflamingo’s brain and it connects two and two together.

“You’re…” it says, twirling around to face crocodile, its expression genuine shock. “You’re getting off on this. You are, aren’t you.”

it returns to its position on top of crocodile, on all fours level with his face, its grin wide as it’s ever been. “I’ve never seen you this wet in my life! And -” it glances over, at the flush in his face almost certainly not from strain, and particularly at the continued dryness of his skin - “And you definitely can’t blame that on your ability fucking up.”

“This is incredible!” it says, between bouts of laughter. it catches a hook aimed feebly at its face, caressing the underside of its curve with long fingers. it releases when crocodile’s body shakes and his arm jerks away involuntarily as, it assumes, more eggs approach.

now it’s got ammo. it plays its best midwife game, staring down crocodile’s crotch with an expression like it totally knows what it’s doing. (not that it matters much, since it seems like crocodile is going to lay these eggs with or without supervision.) its mind is not so simple as to play along with sincerity, though, and it considers itself a master of pushing boundaries.

“Keep pushing,” it says, its tongue emerging from its everpresent smile. “I think I can see the head.”

“fuck you,” crocodile says. he moans, and his knees jerk, and one pops out with enough force to roll over on landing.

“For real though,” it says, examining this one between two fingers. no light sources around would be strong enough to see into it, were this a bird’s egg, but their strange shell was translucent and it’s almost certain it can see something alive inside. “You keep crocodiles, what kind of nest size do they have? How many are we expecting here?”

“they’re called clutches,” he says, he could be almost considered panting, the way he’s breathing, “and my bananawani are all male, so no, i don’t know.”

it doesn’t have time to nest this one before croc starts whimpering again so it’s placed, hopefully safely, nestled in pillows at the neglected head of the bed.

“Really? They’re all male? Are you that insecure, Croc?” It says.

crocodile struggles to form a sentence, his breaths coming shallow and his throat rumbling against his will. “they’d kill each other if i had females. they get territorial when it’s m- hnn-”

he’s interrupted by a hand running up his thigh, a thumb stroking the inside.

“what are you-” he says, his hooked arm trying to move to muffle a moan but getting caught and kept out of the way by doflamingo’s stronger grip. “- trying to pull-”

“I’m helping,” it says, laughing small. “What, do you not want me to help? You seem pretty into it.”

he groans in response, perhaps in defeat. it laughs again. it’s always laughing.

its hand moves up to his abdomen, it shifts its entire body forward and it sinks its teeth into his neck.

now he’s squirming quite a bit, for more reasons than just his previous predicament. his hand scrambled against its hair, tugs against it as hard as he can manage. doflamingo can feel muscles give from under its hand and it supposes another egg has been laid.

“not my neck!” he hisses, breathy. “i have to go out in public!”

it laughs into his skin, but it releases, watches as its saliva on his neck disappears into a bruise already purpling. “Pull your cravat a little higher, or whatever. Nobody cares.”

but it obliges, and when it next bites, it pulls fabric away and chooses the flesh of his shoulder, instead. his back arches, his hand digging into its back, gold-painted nails making marks through its thin button down.

the eggs are coming faster now, it thinks, and it could come up with a variety of reasons why.

 

-

 

two dozen exactly, it ended up. two dozen eggs nestled closely, wrapped in the bright feathers of doflamingo’s plumage. it’s not sure it’s ever seen crocodile so tired, and he was never one who rested easy. he sits next to it on the side of the bed, pants not yet found, his chest now exposed and already colored a vibrant spectrum of reds and purples. he takes a long drag from his cigar, and taps free the ashes into a tray on the bedside table. its meal, an intended peace offering, still sit there, cold and untouched.

“This why you were so pissy last night?”

he’s silent for a bit, watching the smoke rise and dissipate. “i’ve been sick for a month. glad it’s over with.”

they’re both quiet again. even it’s uncharacteristically serious, not even smiling.

“What are we going to do about them? Like, they’re gonna hatch, right?”

he takes time to respond, continuing his smoking ritual.

“we never speak of this.”


End file.
